


Your Wicked and My Divine

by friedgalaxies



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Drag Queens, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Trans Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22320109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friedgalaxies/pseuds/friedgalaxies
Summary: The Devil's Nest was a seedy, hole in the wall dive bar even by dive bar standards. Rumor has it the owner is a secretive, eclectic bastard who collects people like aged bottles of antique rum; pretty, expensive treasures kept on a high shelf away from reaching hands. Dolcetto just wants something new, to stop running from his past and into a future where no one knows who he is. Is that so much to ask?Apparently so.
Relationships: Dolcetto | Dorochet & Martel | Marta, Dolcetto | Dorochet/Greed
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	Your Wicked and My Divine

The Devil’s Nest was a seedy, hole in the wall dive bar even by dive bar standards. The whitewashed anterior of the building was sandwiched between an old warehouse that used to house industrial packing equipment, and an accounting office that had long since been run out since the tax accountants running it had been found neck deep in white collar crime. The high arch over which “Devil’s Nest” hung in bright red and yellow neon letters, of which a caricature of a squashed, bat-winged demon sunk its claws into posessively, led down a short set of stairs and to a thick metal door. A street over from the meatpacking district and square off the corner of the industrial district, it didn’t have much foot traffic frequenting what had once been asphalt but was now so caked with dirt that it was hardly recognizable as black anymore.

Aside from the sign, which flickered and buzzed at all hours of the day, it was fairly nondescript.

At least, that was during the day. At night, the Devil’s Nest came alive.

As the sun came down and cars began passing through the street, from industrial to residential and back again, a broad shouldered man with silver hair that may have once been dark leaned up against the outside of the single entry door, thick arms crossed over his black clad chest. He almost seemed to blend into the shadow that encapsulated the descension, except for those who were already familiar with the bar.

People who had been going for years, months, or just weeks, people who were being tugged along by their friends with great reluctance, people who had heard about it through the grapevine and decided hey, why not? The Devil’s Nest was a bar that gathered patronage by word of mouth alone, but it's entry line still snaked out into the street and down the block almost every night.

Dolcetto had been working at the Devil’s Nest as one of their few bartenders- and handful of employees overall- for a few months now. He liked the job well enough; the hours were flexible, he had enough off hours to take his dogs hiking every week, his coworkers were great, and it was easy enough on his back he didn’t feel like an old man shambling into his apartment every morning after the night shift- aside from reaching all the way up to the top shelves for heavy glass liquor bottles when they had yet to install a fucking stool behind the bar.

But his favorite thing was the people.

Martel would rib him as she swung by with another drink tray or bumped him with her hip as she sidled behind the bar alongside him, saying he was more friendly than his two German Shepherds. He’d just roll his eyes at her teasing, habitual as it was, and go back to mixing and shaking and stirring and measuring, all with a crooked grin that came easy as he worked.

There were a few regulars that stuck out to him, of course. Some of the patrons barely treated him as more than a walking, talking liquor tap, but others would strike up a friendly conversation with him as he mixed their drinks. If he was lucky, they’d ask about how his dogs were doing, and he’d get a small reprieve from recycled small talk about the weather or the music that played over the dance floor to gush about his boys while they slept soundly at home, far away from pumping music and sweaty bodies.

One man, in particular, had piqued Dolcetto’s interest, not unlike the way his dogs would keep an ear turned toward the squirrels they’d been told to leave alone during a hike.

Except the only one telling him to stay away from the man was Dolcetto himself, and that oddly familiar acrid taste in his mouth that came with thoughts of what men like that could do to him with their big, rough hands.

The man was tall, with something like a rugby player’s build, black hair slicked back in carnivorous spikes and tinted lenses settled low on his hawkish nose. His clothes seemed like a second layer of skin, as tight and slick as they were, excepting the fur trimmed leather vest that ended somewhere around the bottom of his ribcage and brushed up against the sharp cut of his jaw.

He always ordered a shot to start the night off, something strong enough it would have made Dolcetto’s face wrinkle in disgust if he had ordered it himself. He tended to come back for something a little smoother but just as strong, typically a Rusty Nail, after spending time grinding among the throng of bodies refracted in multicolored lights in the crushing pulse of the dance floor, like a human meat tenderizer.

Dolcetto could never keep track of him, with his dark clothes and darker hair. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was the type to press up to random guy after random guy till he lucked out. Cruisers, Roa would mutter under his breath as he picked one up by the collar and all but threw them into the dark street outside. Usually they were far more boisterous, had far worse taste in liquor, and almost never asked before sticking their hand down someone’s pants- or up someone’s shirt, as Dolcetto had been unfortunate enough to find out one night.

He really hoped this sharp angled man wasn’t a cruiser.

It was a slower night than usual, the music pumping softer through the speakers than normal to match the mood. People paired off in couples or trios at the few booths lining the walls along the back edge of the dance floor, talking amongst themselves. Occasionally they’d come up to ask for a refill on their drink, or flag down Martel from across the room. The door swung open, Roa’s broad form casting a long shadow over the wooden floor as patrons entered. He caught Dolcetto’s gaze, flicking his chin towards the new entries as an unspoken gesture to keep an eye on them. Dolcetto nodded, plastering on his most inviting grin.

It helped that it exposed his just-slightly-too-big canines on either side, the right one crooked from when he’d taken a baseball to the face in high school.

A man Dolcetto didn’t recognize peeled off from the group entering the bar area, the rest going to dance without even glancing over their shoulders to check that he was still with them. Distantly, Dolcetto wondered if they were even in a group together, or if this guy had slipped in while Roa held the door open for the regulars Dolcetto easily recognized, even in the low light. It helped that half the people who frequented the Nest had brightly colored hair, tattoos, or distinctive piercings. Sometimes, it was a combination of all three.

“Evening, sir, what can I get for you?” Dolcetto asked, leaning onto his elbows on the inner edge of the bartop, rag he’d been using to idly polish the dark stained wood clutched in one hand. The man raked him over with his eyes as he spoke, like he was inspecting him all he could without actually laying hands on him, peeling him apart like a sadistic high schooler with a science experiment. It made Dolcetto’s stomach curl uncomfortably, but he pushed the feeling down in favor of putting some distance between the two of them, reaching preemptively for the liquor shelf. “You a dark liquor kinda guy?”

“I’m more of a… sweet liquor kind of man, if you catch my drift. I don’t like _hard_ things,” the man’s voice was like snake oil, dripping between his teeth and across the bartop to curl up in a puddle at Dolcetto’s feet. He cleared his throat, thinking about the radio strapped to his hip and the matching one Roa kept strapped to his belt, just outside the door.

The heavy, thick, metal door.

“Mixed drinks, then? I’m more of a martini guy, myself,” he offered up instead, reaching along the glass rack for something suitable.

“Of course you are,” the man said with that same snake oil tone, tapping two fingers against the polished wood in an impatient rhythm.

Dolcetto pretended not to hear that, instead setting himself to putting together one of the house specials. He could feel the man’s eyes on his every move as he mixed the drink. Martel slid into the bar alongside him, brushing past with a tray of used glasses. Her skin was cold where it skiffed over his exposed forearm.

Considering how infamous the Nest was, and their zero tolerance policy when it came to accosting bar staff or other patrons, Dolcetto had faced few problems other than the occasional cruiser or overly drunken patron that got rowdy with him when he cut their drinks off for the night.

There was, however, one other type of person Dolcetto knew well: chasers.

Chasers, the kind of person, usually men, who looked for any kind of individuals they thought might deviate from the average cisgender experience and tried to get into their pants as quickly as possible, fueled by nothing other than a sick curiosity and an even sicker fetish. It made Dolcetto’s stomach turn to even think about, much less the rare times he’d experienced it since starting work at the Nest.

He had never been one to put himself out much, even as much as he enjoyed people of all kinds, provided they weren’t douchebags upon immediate introduction. He had a hard off switch, and rarely gave second chances, if ever. Most connections he had were surface level at best- hell, the ones he’d formed with the Nest staff were the deepest he’d had since putting roots down in Dublith, and he still wasn’t sure if Bido actually worked here or not. He preferred to people-watch, as Roa had aptly put it.

No, it was the fear of someone finding out who- what- he was, and kicking him to the curb with immediate disgust. Or worse, with violence.

He rubbed idly at his chest as he garnished the drink, phantom reminders of bruising that had once blossomed across his chest in a spray of purple and black prickling at his skin.

The man’s eyes followed his every movement, chasing the soft outline of his chest in the figure concealing black tee, lines just soft enough they could have been fatty pectorals or something else entirely. His skin felt like it was burning.

“House special,” Dolcetto spoke up, sliding it across the bar with practiced ease. “Lemme know what you think.”

“Oh, if I have my way, you’ll be knowing what I think about much more than just the drink, kitten.”

Kitten.

_Kitten._

A familiar, sick panic bloomed in the pit of his gut, the twisted roots of an age-old tree sinking deep into the walls of his intestines with the unforgiving grip of disease. An innocuous nickname, something off the cuff and sweet, intentionally kind. Something he’d be told he was overreacting about, panicking over nothing, being a buzzkill and a prude.

The looks, the snake oil slick words, the way his eyes traced the soft outline of Dolcetto’s frame, lingering at his chest, his waist, his hips. His chest. His waist. His hips. Hips.

Hips hips hips hips-

He had to get out of here.

The half empty pack of cigarettes in his back pocket felt more important than it had in weeks. He barely got a word out to Martel, a hurried, “smoking”, falling from his lips as he shouldered past, her concerned look following the tense line of his shoulders.

This bar was so damn small. Why was it so small? Where was the employee only exit- there- he fumbled with the metal push bar, suddenly very aware of how his shirt fit to his arms, his shoulders, his chest his waist his hips his _hips-_

The scent of dingy back alley puddle water had never been more soothing.

Dolcetto inhaled deeply, chills rising to prick at the skin of his face, his throat, his arms, as smoke and garbage tinted air caressed the hot flush painted across his face in broad strokes. The door hissed closed behind him, hydraulics and springs and who knows what slowly releasing pressure as it clicked back into place.

He gripped the squashed carton in one hand, tapping out a cigarette into a shaking palm, nearly dropping the rest as he shoved them deep in his pocket again. He didn’t like to smoke, didn’t like the way it clung to his clothes and his breath and his teeth and tongue with a nauseating, almost overpowering scent of nicotine and carbon. Didn’t like the way it made his lungs feel like boiled leather bags after a particularly stressful week, trying to keep up with his dogs as they ran through hiking paths that, logically, shouldn’t have given him any pause. He was a fit, active young man, after all.

Young man. Yeah. That’s who he was.

He ran the hand not holding the slowly smouldering cigarette through the spikes of chocolate-red-brown he kept slicked up and away from his face. Ash floated off the end of his cigarette as a stiff breeze blew by, carrying with it the scent of pork leavings from the butcher’s garbage. His stomach growled.

The door hissed again and he tensed, toes curling uncomfortably in his work shoes, a pair of grey boots he hadn’t worn to anything but social functions in years. Not that he was invited to enough to wear them out.

He coughed on the leftovers of smoke in his lungs as the sharp angled man with the tinted glasses and skintight clothes peered out into the alley behind the Nest, one brow raised in silent question.

“Hey, uh- that’s for employees only, y’know,” Dolcetto huffed between slaps to his own chest, attempting to dislodge the surprise caught in his ribs.

The sharp angled man snorted, pushing the door open all the way and moving to join him, the heavy metal door hissing closed once again.

“Whaddya think I am, kid, some rando wandering around, sloshed off his ass? Did no one tell you about the owner yet?” the sharp angled man asked, leaning against the wall next to him and removing a carton of cigarettes from his own jeans. How he managed to fit anything in there with pants that tight, Dolcetto didn’t know. “Mind if I get a light?”

Without waiting for an answer, he leaned in to light his cigarette off Dolcetto’s where it hung in the corner of his mouth, puffing lightly till the end began burning with an ember of its own.

“Uh,” Dolcetto replied intelligently.

The man just stared at him with a grin, taking a long pull off his cigarette and exhaling smoke rings upwards. Dolcetto watched them fade into the stiff, slight breeze, small swirls of gray turned into miniature clouds for the barest of moments.

“Who are you?” Dolcetto finally managed to ask, shuffling uncomfortably. He wanted to get away from here. He wanted to go on a run. He wanted to lift weights till his arms gave out and his back started aching. He wanted to hide.

“I’m Greed. I own the Nest, but I like to keep it secret. Mingle with the common man without turning them away, y’know?”

Dolcetto knew the owner of the bar liked to keep a little secrecy, and that even extended to his employees. Apparently, part of the ritual hazing once they brought you on was to wait it out till you figured out who the boss was on your own, and those who knew already weren’t allowed to give any hints of any kind. Dolcetto knew he should have put on a better facade for his employer, lest he get fired, but all that came out of his mouth was-

“That doesn’t sound like a real name.”

To his surprise, Greed threw his head back and laughed, hand pressed against his bosom as if Dolcetto had said something simply darling. He made a broad sweeping motion with his other hand, cigarette a bit like a miniature baton, “Pup, that’s ‘cause it isn’t. My old man ain’t too good at the naming thing, despite all the kids he’s had time to practice his technique on. Me and my siblings all adopted one kind of nickname or another by the time we were old enough to realize that that’s where the worst of the teasing came from.”

Dolcetto’s nose wrinkled of its own accord, “‘Pup’?”

“Well, you’re our big fierce guard dog, aren’t ya’? Mart tells me ‘bout how you can tell if someone is gonna cause problems faster than they can make ‘em. Sounds like canine intuition to me,” he said, tapping his temple with a conspiratorial grin. He paused to take a drag off his cigarette, exhaling smoke between unnaturally white teeth.

“Didn’t do me any good this time,” Dolcetto muttered, slumping against the wall once again. The brick prickled against his skin through the thin fabric of his tee. “Got too shook up just ‘cause some douchebag was pulling sleazy tricks on me.”

Greed shrugged, fabric trimmed collar brushing against his cheekbones with the movement. “It happens. ‘Sides, he’s already gone. Got Roa on his ass as soon as you hit mach ten towards the door.”

Had Greed come out here just to check on him?

No, Dolcetto wasn’t that important. Martel probably put him up to it, having been closest to the incident- “incident”. It was such a big word to plaster over the fact that a guy called him a petname and he got upset about it.

Something that tasted distinctly like shame curled up and made its home in his throat, snaking all the way down to his chest.

He took another long pull off his cigarette, tapping ash off into a puddle nearby.

“You don’t have to come back in if you don’t wanna, y’know,” Greed offered, head tilted back to look at the sky, cigarette held loosely in the corner of his mouth. His teeth were just a touch too sharp to be natural, orange filter held gingerly in the tips of too-big canines, pressed into the corner of cracked lips. Dolcetto wondered if he was the kind of guy to use lip balm.

“I’ve had tougher men get shook up by less. If y’wanna go home, that’s fine. I’ll get Mart to cover the rest of yer shift.” Dark grey smoke filtered between those too-sharp teeth of his. “Won’t get paid for it, ‘course, but I won’t dock your pay, either.”

Dolcetto nodded, rolling his near forgotten cigarette between calloused pads of forefinger and thumb. His train of thought, conductor asleep at the wheel- did trains have steering wheels?- drifted in the direction of Greed’s waiting expression. He didn’t have any crows feet or lines around the mouth. He wondered how old the guy was.

Greed leaned forward in anticipation, hands braced on his hips inside the protective lining of leather pockets, “...so?”

“Right- uh-“ Dolcetto stammered, tearing his gaze away from the impatient curl of Greed’s mouth down to the dingy puddle of garbagewater at his feet. His reflection stared back up at him, somewhere between flushed and pale, hair askew, bags beneath his dark eyes. Wow.

He looked like shit. No wonder Greed was worried.

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer, Boss.”

Greed showed him out the back way, of which Dolcetto had not even been aware existed, palming off the wallet and keys Martel had snagged from the work room for him, just in case. He saw Dolcetto off with a nod and a promise that he’d be back up to par in a few evenings, considering it would be much busier than usual. They had a show coming up that night and needed all the manpower they could get.

Dolcetto nodded shakily, waving a final goodbye to his boss and starting the walk back towards his apartment. He barely bothered to drive most nights since it was so close, and the exercise did him good. Besides, the night air helped to clear his head. It would be sunrise before too long.

His apartment was quiet, empty, save for the two black lumps curled up at the foot of his bed, breathing softly into the still darkness. One popped his head up, yawning, dark eyes flashing in the low light, stretching forelimbs out and rising to greet Dolcetto with a companionable nudge to the chin.

“Hey, guys,” he breathed, a chuckle sticking to his teeth like the remnants of smoke and the thoughts of too-sharp teeth. Both dogs nosed at him with the curious air of wondering why he was home so early, and why their peaceful sleep had been interrupted. Luca licked at his chin with a pitiful whine, brown eyes widening with the hope of an earlier breakfast than usual.

Dolcetto shucked his shoes off, not bothering with removing the rest of his clothes. The night hung to him, thick and heavy, like a weight across his shoulders, anchored deep within his chest. If he moved just so, the weight shifted, and that deep anchor in his chest tugged so hard it burned. The creature of guilt, and shame, and something else he couldn’t quite name, curled up in its home in his throat, mewled pitifully. He sighed, raking both hands through his hair, and collapsed on top of the messily made covers. Luca pressed his cold nose to his side, Angelo worming his head beneath his other hand. Dolcetto slept in for the first time in a long, long while.

Occasionally, the Nest would host the local drag queens for a show, dance floor cleared and stage erected in the center of it to accommodate for their theatrics. Dolcetto hadn’t been on long enough to see a drag show yet, but he knew a few of the queens by name, considering they liked to frequent the Nest even out of costume.

“You’re in for a real treat,” Martel promised, stomping across the top of the stage a final time to check the stability. Her heavy soled boots echoed in the emptiness of the bar, chains strung from her belt loops rattling along in a kind of impromptu percussion performance. Dolcetto rolled his eyes, peering up at her through the gap between the rails installed three-quarters of the way around for safety.

“So I’ve been told. Who’s even performing tonight?” he asked, head cocked inquisitively.

“I’m not allowed to say!” she sat on the edge of the stage and slid down in a single fluid motion, tapping him on the shoulder chastisingly as she went. It was almost like she didn’t have bones sometimes, he swore.

“Not even a hint? C’mon, Mart, I swear I won’t let anyone know,” he whined. Martel shook her head, the single string of dishwater blonde hair that never seemed to stay tucked behind her ear swinging in time with the movement. He raked a hand through his own hair on reflex. Half the reason he kept it so short was to keep it out of his face. He couldn’t understand how she went about her day like that, especially considering how many times she complained about it getting caught in her mascara coated lashes during a shift.

“Anyone we know, at least?” he prodded, trailing behind her like a puppy as she began wiping down the bar from the inside. She whipped the dish towel at his chest teasingly, snorting.

“I know a lotta people, dunno about you,” she began, handing him a dish towel of his own. “Here, at least make yourself useful if you’re gonna keep prodding me like this. There may be a familiar face or two, there may not be. You’ll have to stick around and find out.”

“Long as there aren’t anymore creeps,” he huffed in return. A familiar, bitter shame crawled up in the base of his throat. He busied himself at her suggestion, towel slung over one shoulder, unloading a cart of freshly washed and dried glasses from the kitchen into the appropriate shelves. Something twinged in his back and he grunted, straightening from a crouch with a grimace.

“Where’s Ulchi with that ice?” Martel grunted, checking the taps for stickiness or dried alcohol crusted around the nozzles.

“Ulchi!” Dolcetto shouted in no direction in particular. There was an answering grunt, and the man in question appeared through the kitchen door, unloading smooth cut ice spheres into the cooler beneath the bar with gloved hands.

Ulchi frowned, tucking the thick leather and canvas gloves into his back pocket and wiping his hands off on stained, threadbare jeans. He worked security with Roa, hence why he wasn’t always in, but busier nights meant more patrons and thus more accidents waiting to happen. It didn’t hurt to have a little extra muscle on hand, Dolcetto had found.

In fact, Roa and Ulchi had seemed impressed with his previous bouncing experience when he was first hired on, and had expected that to be his job in lieu of bartending. Dolcetto wasn’t the tallest guy around, topping out at maybe five-and-a-half feet on a good day, but he was built solid, with broad shoulders and a thick barrel of a chest. It took more than a couple punches to put him down.

“Tell ‘em what, ten, twenty minutes?” Ulchi asked, ducking out of the bar and towards the backstage area that had been converted for the performers to get ready before the show. Martel nodded, shooing him off with a noncommittal hand gesture so she could run a final inspection over the bar. Upon finding their collective work satisfactory, she leaned in to Dolcetto conspiratorially, a crooked grin on her face that Dolcetto had learned to associate with her being up to something.

Usually, that something was embarrassing for him, and hilarious for her. The pattern had yet to change.

“Listen, Boss isn’t around, but he wanted me to tell you that you’re gonna be M.C. tonight-“

“Me?” Dolcetto nearly shouted, only remembering to reign his volume back in at Martel’s shocked expression. “Sorry, sorry- me? I’m the new guy! Shouldn’t it be one of you all?”

“That’s exactly why the Boss wants you to do it,” the grin crept further across her face, all the way up to her eyes. “Here, here’s a list for who you’ll be introducing tonight. Don’t lose it.”

She produced a piece of paper from the infinite pockets of her cargo pants, all but slamming it into his chest. He fumbled to keep from dropping it, unfolding the compact note to read over the contents, flush creeping further up his face by the moment. A list of four names in a scrawl unfamiliar to him- it wasn’t Martel’s looping, scratchy hand, nor Roa’s block letters that looked like he’d copied them directly out of a teacher’s handbook, so it must’ve been from the bossman himself- lined the partially crumpled note. The first was a single name, reading _“Avarice”._

Why did that sound so familiar?

“But why me?” he finally eked out, clutching the list like a lost child might their prized teddy bear. Martel shrugged again, elbows braced on the freshly polished surface of the bar top.

“Bossman says you’ve got a presence about you. Guess that translates to introducing some queens to a room full of rowdy, drunk gays.”

Yeah, he sure had a presence about him, shaking in an alley with a cigarette burning to an ashen stub in his hand and his mouth hanging slack-jawed open. Bullshit.

“I think he just wants to embarrass me.”

Martel giggled, an uncharacteristically girlish sound, coming from her, “Maybe that too.”

The Nest filled quickly, quicker than other nights, with patrons clamoring at the bar for pregame drinks to get them buzzed and tripping over their own feet before the queens began for the night. Dolcetto was doing his best keeping up with orders, from shots to mixed drinks to dark liquors in squat glasses, that he nearly missed his cue to get to the stage. Martel touched his upper arm with a gentle lightness, handing off a switched-off mic beneath the cover of the bar top and cocking her head in the direction of the temporary stage.

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Dolcetto swallowed the shakiness threatening to creep up his throat and strangle him, tickling at the edges of his jaw and whispering into his ears. He inhaled deeply, shouldering through the crowd to the stage and swinging up onto it in a single, swift movement.

Heads turned to him immediately, some holding drinks, others continuing in their conversation even as they fixed their gaze onto him. He nodded perfunctorily in their direction, switching the mic on and summoning the courage from deep within his stomach that let him take dogs nearly half his size with nothing but layers of canvas between him and the deadly crunch of their jaws.

“Good evening, everyone! Welcome to the Devil’s Nest, I’m sure you’re all familiar with us by now. If not, well, you’re definitely in for a treat.”

The crowd turned to him for real now. Many of them cheered, laughing, giggling. He heard someone wolf whistle from the back and was only half sure it wasn’t Martel. He took the praise in like fresh air and continued, chest puffing up with pride, relaxing into the role.

“I’m Dolcetto, an’ I’ll be your M.C. for tonight- but my name isn’t important. What is important is the amazing performers we have tonight!”

Another cheer, some raising their drinks as a gesture to continue.

“First off, you know her, you love her- at least I’m pretty sure you do, if you missed it, I’m new here- Avarice! If y’don’t like her already I’m sure you will by the time she’s finished with us.”

He slid off the stage the way he’d come to an uprising buffet of cheers, the tide rising to crash over him like a wave of sound as he dipped beneath the crowd level again. He felt dizzy, drunk on his fifteen seconds of fame, and the way the lights fell low with a spotlight cascading up the stage and to the black curtains partitioning off the dressing room to reveal a single hand parting them didn’t help. It was dripping in black and silver chains, a studded bracelet around the wrist, rings glinting on every finger. An arm slowly followed, music beginning to swell as the performer slowly revealed herself in a way that could almost be described as erotic.

Black curtains fell away over a shoulder, a long trail of obsidian hair falling like oil across her skin as she peered out, dark eyes so accentuated by the smoke of black and silver eyeshadow they seemed cavernous. Dolcetto had never seen this particular queen before, though, that wasn’t surprising, considering his involvement in the more open parts of the community had been limited at best, even for the almost five years he’d been out now.

She was like a creature of silver smoke and black, holographic oil, sliding across the stage with a practiced ease and scanning the crowd like a predatory bird looking for its next meal.

Her gaze settled on Dolcetto and he swallowed, thickly.

Her lips were painted a wine red, almost purple.

The crowd cheered wildly and he snapped back to himself, only partially aware he was supposed to be back at the bar with Martel between introductions. Dolcetto managed to tear himself away, though he didn’t know how. Surging back through the crowd felt like swimming upstream and all he wanted to do was turn back around and watch the queen continue to perform.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. He kept up the act he’d donned at the beginning of the night, soaking up every iota of praise the crowd laid out, even if it wasn’t directly for him. Martel patted him on the shoulder several times throughout the course of the night, a concerned look in her eyes, to which he’d brush her off with a water-logged excuse about the music or the crowd or the business of the bar.

As the night died down and the sun began to rise, Dolcetto found himself leaning against the bar, shoulders aching. The muscles from his neck to lower back felt tight, like coiled springs, rubber bands pulled tight enough to snap. He rolled his shoulders with a grunt, fishing around for the nearly finished carton of smokes in his jean pocket.

But even as he made for the back exit, marked for employees and employees only, he drifted back towards those black curtains that had felt like oil slick no more than a few hours before.

Oil slick seemed like the right word for it. Fluid, all encompassing, and hard as hell to get rid of. As soon as you stepped foot in it, you were marked, and it was either sink or swim from there.

He pressed a hand against the curtains and peeked into the backstage dressing room.

Considering he’d expected it to be completely empty now, save for the equipment and furniture they’d need to put away till next performance night, the person sitting in a chair not but a few feet to his left nearly made Dolcetto jump out of his skin. He clutched his chest like a shocked debutante, gripping a curtain with the other for stability. A familiar chuckle rang in his ears.

“Didn’t know you frightened so easy, pup. I’ll have to keep in mind,” Greed said, winking, from where he sat in a makeup chair with his legs crossed. He was out of drag from the waist up, chest bare and makeup stripped away, wig having been discarded to sit on a mannequin head. His spiked hair was a mess, poking in every direction like a particularly short and disgruntled sea urchin. His leather and chain and black satin attire continued from the waist down, however, like he’d been in the middle of getting undressed and had stopped to take a break.

“Uh,” Dolcetto replied, intelligent as ever.

“What, you didn’t recognize me? I could’ve sworn you did, with all the staring you were doin’.” Greed teased. His phone pinged where it sat on the crook of his crossed knee, screen lighting up with a notification. A frown creased between his brows, cheshire curve of his mouth jerking downwards.

“Y’know,” he began, frown beginning to morph back to what appeared to be his iconic cheshire grin, sharp teeth included, as he flipped through his phone. “I ain’t just the boss around here; I also manage the Nest’s social media.”

He beckoned Dolcetto closer, turning the screen in his hand to face him. He was briefly blinded by the change in lighting, blinking away white spots, till his vision began to clear to reveal rows and rows of tweets directed at the Devil’s Nest’s twitter. “People really like you, kid. Said I should make you a regular for drag nights.”

“The hell do they like about me?” Dolcetto muttered, taking the phone from Greed to scroll through the myriad of tweets. Most of them were layering praise on Greed and the other queens for their performances that night, or the stellar service at the Nest, or the general atmosphere of the night. But, a considerable amount also sang his praises. They called him everything from, _“the M.C.”_ which was accurate but none too descriptive, or _“the cute hunk with the big voice and nice ass,”_ which was more descriptive but made his face flame in hot embarrassment.

Greed snickered, taking his phone back and laying it facedown on the vanity, spreading his hands wide, “You’re charismatic, what can I say. There’s something charming about a small dog who thinks of himself like a big one.”

“You’re worse than Martel,” he whined in return, though that wasn’t doing much to help his image as a pitiful puppy in Greed’s eyes. “She calls me ‘pup’ all the time now, ‘cause of you.”

“It’s fitting though, ain’t it?” his eyes were shining in the dim light of the backstage, now. Dolcetto couldn’t tell if they were a deep, rich, brown, or an off-red wine almost the same color as the lipstick he’d been wearing earlier. They might’ve just been colored contacts, too.

“Guess so. Pretty small dog of me to run tail after I got scared-”

Greed groaned, throwing his head back dramatically, “You’re still kickin’ yourself over that? Really, now.”

“What?” Dolcetto found himself posturing, arms crossed over his chest defensively. It was one thing to hear it coming from his coworkers and friends that he was being pedantic about it, but it was another thing entirely to hear it coming from his boss, especially a guy as handsome and attractive as Greed-

Wait-

“I mean, I just think you’re beatin’ yourself up unnecessarily over it, y’know? Somethin’ like that woulda shook anyone up, and I only even saw the tail end of it. Martel told me some of what happened,” Greed made a vague gesticulation with one hand, though the knuckles on his other hand tightened almost imperceptibly where he gripped the armrest of the chair.

“She couldn’t exactly defend me,” Dolcetto interjected, quick to jump to his coworker’s defense. And it was true, in his slowly building experience, unfortunately. Men like the one who had accosted him that night, slipping flirtatious remarks into his conversation as easy as he might’ve roofied a poor, unfortunate soul’s drink, didn’t take too kindly to being interrupted. Not that there was much Martel could’ve done, in the first place, without outing Dolcetto to the stranger and putting the both of them in an even more dangerous situation had his suspicions been confirmed.

Dolcetto’s shoulders burned when he rolled them. Setting up the stage had doubled the soreness he was already feeling from arm workouts the previous day.

“Sometimes you just gotta let guys like that get what they want, for a while,” he muttered, leaning against the edge of the vanity. Greed affixed him with an appraising look.

“D’you always let guys… get what they want, so to speak?” he asked, mouth quirked with traces of an expression Dolcetto couldn’t quite name. His brows flickered downwards, once, like Greed couldn’t decide on whether he wanted to scowl or grin.

“No, ‘course not,” Dolcetto huffed in return. “Though, I haven’t been around guys who’d be into me in ages, so maybe I’m outta practice.”

“You don’t know that,” Greed all but purred, holding his chin in one hand, long fingers curled over the sharp rise of a cheekbone. His expression had settled, now, on something dark and a little dangerous and, frankly, more intoxicating than it had any right to be.

“You flirting with your employees, boss?” he offered, lowly, in lieu of a confirmation one way or another, though he was sure his dastardly ears had turned a flustered pink at the tips.

Greed shrugged, adjusting in his chair. The leather pants hadn’t looked all too comfortable before, but tonight’s chain and leather and satin getup had to have that feeling like wearing nothing at all. Dolcetto winced inwardly at the thought of trying to put the contraption on Greed’s finely muscled legs onto his own body.

“Maybe. Is my employee flirting back? If he’s not, we can forget this all ever happened,” he murmured, leaning forward in anticipation. The black leather squeaked, chains rattling gently. Dolcetto swallowed thickly, tracing the line of a chain from where it was hooked into a belt loop and traced down, down, down along the sculpted curve of Greed’s thigh, all shiny black leather and matte satin.

“He is,” he whispered, pushing back against that creature that had made a nest deep in his chest, threatening, now, to crawl up his throat and take his tongue hostage.

Greed hummed, spreading his knees in silent invitation, a hand loosely curled on his thigh beckoning him forward. Dolcetto trailed closer, feeling every bit like a lovesick puppy, except he was very much a lovesick puppy facing down a black mamba that could very well tear him apart.

Greed’s hands settled appreciatively on his waist, trailing down his hips to hook into the belt loops of his dark grey jeans, so old they’d worn thin and white in the knees. His hands were warm, hot, almost, fingers spanning to appreciate the broad curve of his hips. Dolcetto shuddered, hands hovering over Greed’s bare forearms.

“Is this okay?” he asked, peering up through dark, short lashes. Dolcetto nodded, pressing closer, at which Greed hummed, pleased. “You can touch me, y’know. I won’t hurt ya.”

Dolcetto inhaled deeply, lungs bottoming out all the way into his stomach. That feral little creature hissed at the invasion of space, scrabbling for purchase. He ignored its cries in the back of his skull, pressing them down in favor of cupping Greed’s sharp jaw in both of his own calloused hands. He was almost surprised when his palms didn’t come away bloody.

“Kiss me,” Greed purred, wetting his lips.

Dolcetto almost fled, then. His hands shook minutely where they gripped Greed’s jaw, firm and sharp and hot, so hot, almost boiling to the touch. Or maybe he was just cold, ice cold, freezing from lack of contact over years and years. Frigid, near frozen, having not touched someone, anyone, like this, since he set roots down in Dublith.

The last guy he’d spent a night with had ended up kicking him out the following morning and wouldn’t look him in the eye when he ordered breakfast at the diner Dolcetto worked at. He’d seen him in the middle of a crowd of protestors not a week later, his own cheeks painted in stripes of white and pink and blue and multicolored stripes dripping down the front of his chest. He’d known it was going to happen, had known he’d be among those screaming for their damnation at a celebration of pride, but hadn’t expected the shock to hit him quite so viscerally.

“I- y’know, I haven’t spent a night with a guy in years, so, uh, I’m a little rusty,” he stalled for time instead of kissing Greed, staring up close at those wine-red-brown-black eyes, rimmed with leftover smudges of dark liner and deep with wanting.

Wanting, for him.

“Well,” Greed exhaled a chuckle, running a hand over the curve of Dolcetto’s thigh. “I’ll have to remove the duct tape keeping my dick attached to my taint first, but I’m down if you are.”

“I should warn you,” Dolcetto muttered, unlocking his apartment door with one hand. Greed hummed inquisitively, face pressed to the crook of his neck, nibbling gently at the barely exposed skin of his collarbone. Dolcetto shivered, leaning into the touch and almost dropping his keys. “I have dogs- German Shepherds.”

Greed made an uneasy noise in the back of his throat, vibrations humming along the surface of Dolcetto’s shoulder. “Dogs don’t tend to like me very much, pup. I’d hate for our night to end early ‘cause I got mauled and you gotta drive me to the hospital.”

Dolcetto snorted, turning to grab Greed by the wrist and lead him inside. The apartment was dark, empty, save for the two of them. Dolcetto lived alone, save for his dogs, which had become a sort of double edged blade. On the one hand, it was nice, because he didn’t have to worry about wearing pants at home or his dogs bothering any potential roommates enough that they filed a complaint against him.

But on the other hand, he was a single, gay trans man living alone in the heart of a city, not too far from the industrial district and the constant foot traffic that filed below his alley-facing window.

“They’re all bark, I promise. ‘Sides, theyre put away already. I don’t leave ‘em out when I’m gonna be gone longer than usual,” he trailed off into a mutter, muffled by the skin of Greed’s neck, pressing a searing kiss to the joint of his neck and shoulder. Greed hummed in appreciation, tucking his hands into the back pockets of Dolcetto’s jeans, pulling him closer against his chest, hips slotting together. Dolcetto was just barely tall enough to throw his arms up around Greed’s neck, raking a hand through the short cropped hair at the back of his head.

“You strong enough to carry me?” he breathed, tilting his face up to meet Greed’s. Even in the dark, his pupils were blown wide, almost-wine-colored irises a pinstripe ring of red-purple around the blackness. Greed huffed, catching his mouth in a surprisingly slow, gentle kiss before replying.

“You can’t be all that heavy, puppy.” The nickname made his stomach writhe pleasurably, a prickling want pooling in the pit of his gut and snaking down, down, a need almost like an itch between his thighs. He made a noise of displeasure in the back of his throat, pressing closer, harder, for any semblance of friction to ease it. “What you’ve got on me in muscle you’re lacking in inches.”

“Prove it,” he tried to dare, but it came out more like a whine. Greed chuckled, removing his hands from Dolcetto’s back pockets and sliding them down along the curve of his thighs. Dolcetto near whimpered as he lifted him up, though the strain was apparent, the taut curve of his biceps pressing into the sides of Dolcetto’s ribs.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

“All the way back. Door’s open.” The new position granted him some leverage with which to press down against Greed, but it was barely enough through the taut denim of their jeans. If the returning groan Greed barely caught between his bitten lips was anything, he was finding it pretty nice, too.

He didn’t bother flicking on the light as they entered, even if he could have, too preoccupied with his fingers laced through the short cropped hair at the back of Greed’s neck and nibbling at his earlobe around the piercing he had lanced through it. Greed laid him down gently, so gently, on the bed, taking a moment to admire Dolcetto through the darkness. He squirmed underneath the pressure of his wine-red gaze, turning his face into the sheet, arms at his sides with nothing to hold onto, now.

“Hey, now,” Greed murmured, and it came out so much softer than he could have ever imagined his loud, animated boss ever being. Long, calloused fingers gripped the sides of his jaw, just barely pressing forcefully enough to turn Dolcetto’s face towards him. He almost wanted to ask him to press harder. The butterfly light, ghosting touch was maddening.

“I can’t admire a piece of fine art if it’s not even lookin’ at me, now can I?”

His skin burned with the praise in the best kind of way.

“N-no,” Dolcetto stammered in reply, curling his legs tighter around Greed’s hips. Greed grunted at that, leaning over Dolcetto with his hands braced on the mattress at either side of his head. His voice was low, almost a growl.

“What do you need me to not do?” he said, words humming in the depths of his throat, dragging slow, sloppy open-mouthed kisses along the curve of Dolcetto’s neck.

Dolcetto squirmed beneath the attention, caught between wanting to buck up into the pleasurable friction of Greed’s hips and curling in on himself in shame, shame so hot and heavy it seared across his chest like a brand. Greed paused, pulling away just far enough to look him in the eyes, concern written plainly across his face, sharp brows drawn close with a thread of worry.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t wanna,” Greed murmured, smoothing his hands down Dolcetto’s sides. His nails were longer than they first appeared, just sharp enough to leave hot trails of sensation through his shirt.

“No, no I wanna, I just-....” Dolcetto scrubbed his hands over his face, chest shuddering on a deep inhale. Greed made a worried noise in the back of his throat, wrapping a hand around Dolcetto’s wrist and tugging gently, gently, peeling his hand away from his face.

“Hey, look,” Greed murmured, gaze roving over his face slowly. “We really don’t hafta, just ‘cause you think I need it or some bullshit like that. Look at me, pup, c’mon.”

He peeled his gaze away from the far wall, shrouded in the depth of shadow, and into the uncharacteristic softness of Greed’s eyes. His sharp features were cast in angular cuts of shadow, corners of his mouth turned down in a concerned frown.

“I… I don’t think I can. I want to, trust me! But not yet, not now,” Dolcetto all but whispered, reaching up to run a hand through Greed’s messy hair. He leaned into the touch, squinting slightly, much like a pleased cat. His frown morphed into a soft smile, gentle, an organic shape amongst the geometric planes of his face. He pressed against Dolcetto, mattress sinking under his weight where he pressed a knee against it. Dolcetto giggled, wrapping his arms around Greed’s broad chest. “What’re you doing?”

“Cuddling. Never heard of a little close contact that isn’t of the coital variety?” Greed nosed against his neck, bed shifting as he made himself comfortable, pulling the heavy comforter over them both. Dolcetto stifled a laugh into his hair.

“I have, just wasn’t where I expected this to go. We’re still dressed!”

“Time to get undressed later. In the meantime, warm me up, I’m freezin’ over here. You got a legal obligation to keep your apartment below freezin’?”

Dolcetto swatted his shoulder playfully. “Hey, it's cheaper. Bartending don’t pay all that much.”

Greed rumbled deep in his chest, arms encircled protectively around Dolcetto’s torso. He raked a hand through the other man’s hair, taught muscles slowly, slowly unwinding, jaw unclenching, melting into the warmth of another body for the first time in far too long.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! drop any comments, concrit, or concerns in the comments, i love to hear from you!


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